In the Teeth of the Wind (11 page)

"No," she said as she threw the canvas tote into the back seat. "He's an octopus. I dated him a few

times, remember?"

Trip pushed away from the trunk and stood by the open door, peering down as she slid inside the car.

"That was before Conor and you started seeing one another," he said gravely, not wanting to bring up

that painful name, but knowing it would penetrate his partner's unrealistic sense of being able to handle

Corbettson by herself. "Irish hated Corbettson. And with good reason."

Sadness flitted across Marek's face and she turned her head away, eyes suddenly too bright. "He's not

going to bother me, Trip," she said softly. "Don't worry."

Neville Triplett shut the door, braced his hands on the top of the car and peered at her through the

open window. "C.C. was furious when you stopped seeing him before, Rhee," he reminded her. "He

always bragged about getting you back if you and Irish ever broke up."

"Irish had nothing to do with me not seeing C.C.," she answered, turning the key in the ignition. "I told

him I was seeing someone else, someone I was interested in, and he didn't press the issue." She looked

up at him. "He never asked me out after that."

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her why Corbettson had not dared ask her out again. He knew

she had a right to know, but he wasn't so sure she could handle it at that moment. Instead, he reached in

through the window and put a hand on her shoulder.

"Promise me you'll keep the doors locked and you won't let that asshole in if he thinks to come over

there looking for you. Okay?" His face crinkled with worry.

Rhianna lifted her hand and crossed her heart. "Scout's Honor."

Trip snorted. "You weren't no scout."

"Close enough," she said, grinning. "I baby-sat one once." She patted his hand. "I mean it, Trip, don't

worry!"

"I can't help it." He withdrew his hand and thrust it into the pocket of his windbreaker. "Will you

promise me you'll call if Corbettson comes over there?"

"Yes," she replied with exasperation.

"You won't let him in?"

"Of course not."

"If anyone comes knocking in the middle of the night you'll call either me or Joey, right?"

"Yes, Daddy," she said.

"Promise?"

"I promise, already!" Her hand went to the gearshift.

Trip nodded, looked out across the parking lot and did not see Corbettson lurking at either exit.

"Drive carefully," he warned her and stood there until the Mustang was no longer in sight. As he walked

to his own car, his jaw tight with suppressed worry, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye and

turned. Corbettson's big sedan was pulling into the complex's north entrance; Rhianna had left by the

south exit.

"Son of a bitch," Trip murmured, stepping behind a brown mini-van to intercept Corbettson as he

drove past. There was no way Corbettson could have seen Rhianna leaving, but as soon as he didn't find

her car in the parking lot, he'd start looking for her and Trip wanted to delay that as long as could.

****

Corbettson frowned. The assigned space where Marek's car had been only ten minutes before was

now empty, but Triplett's dun-colored four by four was still parallel parked beside the walkway.

Hunching over the steering wheel, he swept his angry glare across the lot, failing to see any sign of

Marek's Mustang.

"Where the hell are you, slut?" he mumbled as he allowed his sedan to coast to a stop.

Settling back against the seat with a hiss of frustration, he chewed on his lower lip, worrying it between

his crooked front incisors, nearly biting through it as something slammed against his window. He jerked

his head around and found himself staring at Neville Triplett's stern face.

"You lost, Corbettson?" Trip yanked open the door and grabbed the detective's arm. Corbettson

wrapped his hands around the steering wheel and stiffened to keep from being dragged out of the car.

"What the hell's wrong with you?" Corbettson shouted, his heart slamming against his ribcage. "You

trying to give a man a coronary?"

"Who you looking for?" Trip countered, his upper lip lifting in a sneer.

Corbettson stared into Triplett's hostile gray eyes and shook his head. "I wasn't looking for nobody,

man!"

"No?" Trip asked. "Then whatcha doing over here?"

"Just driving around," Corbettson answered defensively. "Can't a man just take a drive without being

accused of something?"

Trip leaned into the opened doorway, put his face close to Corbettson's. "Let's me and you

understand something, C.C. I got three sisters, you know? All of 'em younger than me." He put a heavy

hand on Corbettson's shoulder. "And I love 'em, see? They're good girls. Real good girls." His fingers

tightened brutally. "And Rhianna? Well, you see, she's sort of like a little sister to me, too, you

understand? And just like I would if any man tried to bother Helen or Laura or Whitney, I'd go after any

man who tried to bother Rhianna. You dig?"

Corbettson's mouth turned mulish. "I got a couple o' sisters, too!" he snapped.

"Yeah? Well, then you'd probably beat the shit outta some bastard who dared take liberties with 'em,

wouldn't you, C.C.?" Trip's fingers became steel shafts digging into the soft spot in front of Corbettson's

collarbone.

A spasm of pain twisted Corbettson's beefy face. "I wasn't doing nothing," he mumbled.

"I hope you weren't planning on doing something, either. 'Cause if you were…" He gave Corbettson's

shoulder one final, savage squeeze then removed his hand. "Well, let's just say I'd think twice about it if I

was you. Irish ain't here, but I am. You got it?"

"I ain't thinking about nothing!" Corbettson ground his teeth together and stared sullenly through his

dirty windshield.

"That's good," Trip assured him as he straightened. He stepped back and slammed Corbettson's door,

then stood there with his hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans, his eyes steady on Corbettson's

profile.

Corbettson turned his head, glancing uneasily at Triplett, then pressed his foot down hard on the

accelerator. With a few feet of safety between them, he stuck his middle finger in the air and drove out of

the parking lot, the back end of his heavy car lurching high in the air and slamming back down as he

rolled too fast over a speed bump.

*Chapter Eighteen*

Rhianna sat in the driveway of Conor Nolan's 1950s bungalow for a long time before she could

dredge up enough courage to get out of the car. When at last she did, she found herself reluctant to climb

the four concrete steps up to the screened-in porch. She felt her palms sweating; heard her blood

pounding. She experienced a slight feeling of vertigo, a quiver of nausea lurking at the back of her throat.

She took a deep breath and climbed the steps. Not giving herself time to think, Rhianna rummaged

through her purse, took out the key to Conor's front door and rammed it into the lock. With a great gulp

of breath, she twisted the key, flinching at the rasp of the tumbler falling, then pushed the door open and

hurried inside.

Closing the door behind her, she slumped against it, and let her eyes adjust to the fading light seeping

in through the wide double windows before she ventured out of the foyer.

It had the musty smell of a house left too long without a human to care for it, to love it. Despite the

warmth flowing up from the baseboard heaters, the living room was damp and chill.

Joe and Sonia had known Rhianna was thinking of moving from her apartment into Conor's house until

he came back.

"We, ah, went over to the house over the weekend," Joe Cortesio had told her Monday morning. "We

cleaned it up a bit." It had been a singular act of love and kindness on their part and she appreciated it

greatly. "Things are all right, now," Joe had said.

_No, Joey, things weren't right_. She didn't think they would ever be right. Not until Conor Nolan

walked through this door and…

It hurt. God, how it hurt. She had to stop thinking!

Rhianna pushed away from the door, inhaling a faint, comforting memory. A tremulous smile hovered

around her lips.

"I like the pine smell," Conor had once defended his cleaner when she'd complained of the sharp odor.

"It smells like the outdoors."

"It smells," she had countered, "like a toilet bowl!"

"Noooo," Conor had drawled. "It smells like the outdoors."

"All right," she'd conceded. "It smells like an outdoor toilet, then!"

A shudder ran through Rhianna and she gripped her elbows. There was really no reason to be cold;

heat billowed the beige open-weave drapes at the double windows. But she was shivering.

"It's been five months, Rhee," she could hear Trip complaining. "Go on over there and deal with it.

Until you do, you aren't going to be able to move on with your life, baby."

She hadn't realized just how much she'd been blocking out until she sat down in the dilapidated recliner

and stared longingly at the blue gingham sofa Conor had insisted she help him choose.

"You don't think it's too, well, you know?" he'd asked.

"Too what?"

Conor had blushed. "Feminine?"

"I like it," she'd said, loath to admit blue gingham didn't seem the ideal choice for a man like Conor

Nolan.

"You do?" His quick words were almost boyish.

"Yes," she had answered. "Very much so."

"That's all I need to know!"

Sitting there looking at the sofa, Rhianna couldn't help but wonder if he hadn't bought it just to please

her. Maybe with the thought of her ultimately sharing it with him.

She'd never gotten the chance. Conor had purchased it on their last date.

Grief squeezed her chest, brought stinging tears to her eyes.

"Stop it," she told herself, getting up. If she let herself dwell too long on that night, she'd scream.

Instead, she looked about the room.

The furniture was just as he had left it. Nothing had been moved; nothing much had been changed.

There were a few light patches on the walls where once the portraits of Conor's Irish grandparents had

hung. The Ormolu clock was gone from the mantel; the oaken trunk that had sat beside the sofa was

missing. Irish's sister now had possession of those things.

"Do you believe that bitch?" Stephen Trevor, Irish's attorney had bit out. "She must have hired some

two-bit thief to break into the house and get what she wanted! I'm going to have that bitch arrested

and…"

"No," Rhianna had stopped him. "Let her have what she wants and be done with it."

"But he didn't _want _her to have those damned pictures, Rhianna! Or the clock. Or the goddamned

steamer trunk, for that matter!"

"They were her grandparents, too, Steve," she'd tried to remind him, but the irate lawyer had not been

mollified.

"I'll have her ass in court so fast…"

"If Conor had had kids, Steve, then I'd be all for jumping on her shit, but there's no one left in their

family but her and her mother, and Maeve Nolan has Alzheimer's. Just let Caitlin have what she feels

belongs to their family and be done with it." Rhianna had sighed heavily. "I don't want to always be

looking over my shoulder, waiting for her to spring a lawsuit on me."

Despite Steve's outrage and his vehement protests, Rhianna had held firm and no more was mentioned

about the missing family heirlooms.

She wandered into the kitchen, flipping on the light switch. Evening was coming down in shifts of

ever-darkening shadows.

The kitchen was spotless and that was an insult. Conor had been a typical bachelor and never once in

all the time she'd known him, had the sink been free of a mound of dirty dishes.

"Why don't you use the dishwasher?" she'd once asked with exasperation.

"I don't _like _dishwashers," Conor had proclaimed. "I _like_ washing the dishes by hand. It's

peaceful."

"Peaceful?" she'd repeated, questioning the man's sanity.

"Soothing," he'd said, nodding. "Almost seductive."

Rhianna had poked at a crusted plate, her mouth twisted in disgust. "Obviously not seductive enough

to lure you into doing it all that often."

And the refrigerator was bare.

Where was his favorite beer? The outrageously expensive bloody Mary mix, sliced limes, and celery

stalks he always kept for her? The slowly rotting lettuce, mushy cucumbers, and evil-looking black

radishes? The sour 2% milk and crumb-encrusted tub of margarine? The crinkled aluminum foil-wrapped

containers of God-only-knew-what? The dozens of packets of malt vinegar from a greasy fish-and-chips

place he'd been addicted to that always fell from the egg shelf when you opened the refrigerator door?

"What on earth are you going to do with all this goddamned malt vinegar?" she'd once asked with

amazement.

Conor had shrugged. "Pickle something?"

Rhianna shut the refrigerator door and sat down at the gleaming red-and-white chrome table. She ran

her hand over the scratched surface, listening to Conor's voice coming at her from the range where, in her

mind, he was stirring a pot of Mulligan stew.

_"I found it at the dump," he explained as he added carrots to the blue enamel pot._

_"And why, pray tell," she inquired, "didn't you leave it there?"_

_"It goes with the kitchen," he sniffed. "Fifties Americana, Marek."_

True enough. The chrome monstrosity, so popular in the '50s, did fit in well with the red-and-black